Lucifer and I are still hoping to get to some artistic merger….my mind has kickedback in, temporary suspension of semantics has lifted, am penning again.

I usually have something to say about where I travel..been rendered somewhat speechless by the jersey ambience..small town Assville. Rockin on.

Hope to start taking pics soon. This is me the night before I flew, stretching out the arms. It’s all shuffling like a pack of haphazardly tossed cards ,impressions that will stack up when I return.

I’m sure the right brain and left brain will have met in in the middle by then,

and there will be some convergence and output.

Whatever, surviving, waving, hoping to bring you some fresh new collab soon.

Ps. check out the teaser cover of Lucifer’s and my Sehkmet 2nd release interlude…coming soon..check this out at his site at http://www.luciferlazerus.com

The release will be on the 16th, we continue to welcome your comments.

if you are having problems viewing check out scribed.com, first release fully viewable for free, plus our collection of illustrated erotic celtic poetry..For the Love of Orange,a delightful sampling of our art and poetiks merged.

Listening to William Orbit and Beth Orton’s Dice this morning, an oceanic remix, trance, it’s beautiful how it waves like the swell of a roller at sea.

I’m feeling some poignancy, an ache, excitement about the day …but struggling to focus crisply and with clarity on the manuscript on masochism as a way of life, a life aesthetic, that is completed, but that I am organizing and pulling together..

I am so excited about this manuscript, it was an odd project, it did not begin with intent, I realized it had cohesion as a work after a year’s worth of musings were pulled together and in the hand.

I write on napkins, yellow lined paper pads, lipstick on the mirror, hell on my body if this is the only place to jot a fragment of poetry, a phrase.

Metaphor is everywhere for the tongue, the eyes, the heart.

I have longed to do some performance art for a few years now, my writing in prose poetiks is for my mouth and for your ear, it is begging to release itself thru my body as text and multimedia.

Story telling, the art of, is shamanistic..and my body must speak..static photos do not feed my urge to bring motion to sound.

A leap, but one I am ready for, and I am eager to connect with other performance artists for idea exchange, mentoring..

This morning as I sat on my porch at 530 am I was floating, along the vernacular of memory, musing back to a couple of years ago, this same time of year, when I was working at a cafe on Salt spring island.

Saltspring is a magical place. There simply are no other words..

A haven for the elite, who private jet in and live in coastal homes in its wilderness, the artistic community, the back to the earthers..

A mix of those who have, and those who have of spirit. And given the dress code on saltspring there’s no telling whose who, except for talk..

I would get up at 4 am, and then walk along a country lane to the cafe in Ganges, and be the first topen , set out the heavy iron deck chairs, fill and prepare the urns for the 7 am onslought, sweep, and dance to the music.

Invariably the same old gentleman, a crusty sea captain, age indeterminable, looked to be somewhere in the vicinity of 300 years old, with twinking sea blazed eyes, would be there waiting,

“what took you so long?”

We would laugh.

I enjoy dawn, always have, the solitude of setting up solo, the physical quality of the work,…wonderful..

I miss Saltspring, it is a pleasant nostalgia, enter via the ferry to Fulford harbor, and you know you have just somehow slipped the portal to Somewhere Else, one of those places on earth that defy the norms..

Islanders are friendly the globe over, something about island living, and being island bred myself I took to it with joyful glee.

Exit via the ferry at Vesuvius, and you see the huge old tree, debarked and sculptural..a form straight from greek mythology..

Ferry travel is my favorite, I love the pace of it, one shore disappearing, another emerging, the waters between. My time spent island hopping off the BC coast , solo, and in control of my own timetable was a precious sanctuary in time..

Topography shapes your soul, I was raised an islander, lived on the coast, have woke many mornings to the laughing Atlantic..the Pacific’s another creature.

The Atlantic will always be Neptune to me, the pacific, the goddess Venus..

Tourist season is approaching and there will be tragically missteps on our rocky beaches leading to drownings, the Atlantic gives and he takes..

A friend once said, if a girl I would like to date can’t look good and show up in rubber boots and go clam digging, I am not interested..

I laughed. We have the whole cultural thing going down around the swimsuit illustrated beach babe, but, here, it’s not that that turns the eye, it is the sight of a couple laughing, children teasetagging the rollers coming in , a woman’s face turned enigmatically to the flankers rising from a northern night bonfire fest.

I have seen some of the photoshoots of performance artists that combine the stunning backdrop of cliff and crag here, and it speaks to my own art heart..

It’s a hard life, settlement here for some 400 years, at first by stealth and then slowly by finger and foothold..

The light, the light, oh my god the light, angling madly off the shale, misting into goth under dreamy disturbed streetlampin, the light is what is unforgettable.

The light and the ocean are one, they play to one another, every shade of blue and green, 1000 moments for the soul, it si the light that is unforgettable.

This morning it dances off the harbor, all silverish saran, flicker and peak.

So, tonight’s the night. I’m staking the attic.
yeah, after a couple of weeks now of listening to something drag itself around up there, something that appears to WALK, I’m going in.

I’m sufficiently amped on one too many amp energy drinks, I’m wearing my camoflage baseball cap, black leotards, hey this may require some weird martial arts moves, and I’m carrying a spray bottle of bleach for its eyes.
If it has eyes.

I’m strung as hell from wrestling with my comp programs for two days in trying to complete a manuscript, and at the moment I am looking like a great before picture for the Betty Ford rehab center. Or is it the Barbara Bush rehab.

I’m not up on my americanisms you know, I’m not even up on my canadianisms. I don’t watch tv, and when you land here on the tarmac, they burst into applause that the plane did indeed make it yet again, and you know you are somewhere..um..different.
Think the movie, The Wicker Man. Original version’s best.

I hear there is the usual uproar here in the virtual blog bog.
I must confess I am too challenged to figure out who’s who in these things.

If I catch it,(the thing in my attic) not whoever is busting everyone for terms of service, I’m gonna stab it.
UHN, UHN, UHN.
Who me?
Living on the edge? frustrated as fuck?

Welcome! Enjoy a growing collection of informative and polemical articles and prose poetry, I write with a celtic influence, on a range of topics from D/s to madness and the way the topography of the land shapes a people and their collective soul… This space will feature interviews and I ... Continue reading →